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should be grateful for 120 seconds to find some sort of expression, some words of affection that articulate better than my passive aggression.

using my throat & tongue to form syllables seems like futility when resurrection isn’t even an option when your heart’s the stone.

you baited, dissolved my reservations like acetone. when my my heart let itself be known, you recalled lips & a chest you had only loaned.

double narrative is inaccurate wording. you leaned in, but without any intent of staying. you used me as a bandage for your wounds, then left me bleeding.

you view me through pieces of a fractured heart that had been glass for you. a diffracted image that you make your truth. better that, & to move on to someone new.

i’ll take the blame for the fragments. i made it fragile when i gave you its chest. you define their intent by merely having sharp edges, then let each cut become a new wedge.

each wedge split the fragments, & shards became an annoyance, as if they fitted themselves under your skin. as that itches, try to picture putting that heart back together.

i don’t blame you for looking for better. i blame you for only being eager to find it in another. i don’t resent you for choosing him. i resent you for your invitation to choose you then.

you put me in a position i can’t defend against the notion of us being anything more than fuck buddies. where i failed in comparison, where you saw my truck as overcompensation, where… stop. please.

on my heart, you weighed conditions. if i cared about you, i wouldn’t swim the oceans. it was my own misconception to believe for a second you gave a damn as i tied that anchor to my ankles.

you can call me the devil, or be too apathetic for labels. i can wish you well, or hope you wake up in my hell. i should’ve followed suit, sat at your table, cut you out of my heart little by little. i’ll never get how you were so damn able.

you want me to apologize for how i’m built? even from your side, you must’ve known the muzzle i put on my mouth & nose. you saw the “fuck off” sign above my eyes, then pushed till i let you inside. you made us close, then became offended i’d whimper & whine as you grew cold.

i wanted our first kiss, an outlet to express. but, you instigated, or our lips wouldn’t have met. so, how could putting vowels and consonants to being made “practice” be cathartic when it means i meant less.

is that offensive, if you have a different perspective that makes any damn sense… but my mindset is irrelevant, as you have your fairy-tale end. i should move on, or at least, put on a plastic grin. or, are you still claiming that patent.

you are the only one who had my throat & mouth. do you know how hard it is to swallow knowing it was you who spit me out. did you lungs exhale freely then, did you inhale any doubt.

it wasn’t your tender heart, wasn’t the work of art God made your face, wasn’t your passion, wasn’t your oceans i drowned in. i fell hard when i thought i felt his hand take my rib cage apart. little girl, it’s not my side that’s scarred, but all the parts you took of me that, till then, i hadn’t let depart.

would you hear a confession, regardless of what bullshit slips off my tongue. can i be done with the victim’s hat; all of this, is what i’ve chosen. i committed when you only gave crumbs. i put myself in, when your contribution was bullshit reasons not to become. since then, your patience paid dividends when you could put it on the hurt that’s happened.

i’ve been numb since, self-destructive, haven’t functioned. you were my confidant, the only signature that mattered on the petition for my throat to not lie by omission, the only ambition of my mouth, you had my kiss in your possession.

i was a boy with an obsession, a man with too many transgressions, a body that served as a distraction when you couldn’t face your own rejection, a heart that could be killed for the next in line of succession.

i’d give anything for you to call bullshit, to be defended by the girl i called my best friend. for you to quit being offended that i’d struggle after you left. but, it was your mouth that condemned, even after it itself took the innocence off my lips.

i don’t have a defense, even if i had a throat to convince. i was dead before a few roses wilted, & neither has been resurrected since. i fucked up when i led, but you followed with the same intent. difference is, i was only a name in the middle of a list. i accepted the beginning of it, even the one that came next. but, the name after that buried what i cherished.

syllables can’t displace the hurt, regardless of their gravity to the earth. here, in the hell you spread to my mental hearth, i’ve been sprawled in a fetal position, with no will for rebirth.


Filed under: 2016, xxix Tagged: poetry

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